


Another Two Hours

by Backwoulds



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hunt Gone Wrong, Hurt No Comfort, Nobody is Dead, Ouch, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Reader-Insert, You really should go to the hospital, dirty cops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-08 18:36:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15936008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Backwoulds/pseuds/Backwoulds
Summary: A hunt goes wrong. What else is new?





	Another Two Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Another plot bunny that burrowed its way into my brain and demanded I type it out. More Winchester drabbles, yay!

“Son of a bitch,” you growl through gritted teeth, your voice barely below a scream. Sam throws a nervous glance to the door, and you're not having any of it. “If you're so concerned about my screaming waking up the neighbors, Sammy, give me a god damn drink.”

You're lying face-down on the rickety sofa that's served as your bed the past two nights in some cheap, off-the-main-road motel about two hours outside Carson City, Nevada, and you're pretty sure you're dying. Maybe you just wish you were.

Dean's at your side, making quick work (he hopes) of the bullet wound in your side. None of you can be sure, but it seems to have missed all of your vital organs and gone through you clean. That’s helpful, of course, but doesn’t negate the fact that you’ve been shot and a big ol’ chunk of your abdomen is now missing. You've got two new holes in you today: the nice, neat entry wound in the front, and the nasty, jagged exit wound in the back. Lucky for you the bitches you were tussling with didn't use hollow-point bullets, or you could have kissed your ass—possibly literally—goodbye. Unlucky for you, those bitches had been cops, and the APB they no doubt put out on the three of you makes going to the hospital an impossibility.

Sam grabs a bottle of whiskey from Dean’s bag and runs to the bathroom to get you a cup. You watch him move past you in disbelief. “God damn it, Sam, I don't need a cup, just give me the friggin’ bottle.” Another blossom of pain courses through you as Dean shoves his sewing needle back into your flesh, his hands red and slick with your blood.

“Stop moving!” Dean shouts, trying his best to get you stitched up without hurting you any worse than you already are. It's a losing battle. Sam rushes quickly back into the room and thrusts the bottle into your hand. You all but rip off the cap and chug what feels like a third of what's left. It burns like a bitch going down, but that's good enough to momentarily distract you from what's going on just north of your waistband.

“Sam,” Dean's voice is calm and commanding. Normally, Sam's the one who stitches you up, but he's virtually incapacitated at present thanks to one dirty cop who slammed the door of her squad car closed on Sam's dominant hand. God damn crooked cops. What is this, Chicago in the 1920s? If you ever get your hands on them, you swear— “Did you see anyone else checked in here?”

Sam shakes his head, cradling his injured hand against his chest. He doesn't think it's broken, but he can't know for certain. At least two of his fingers definitely are, and, knowing his luck right now, one of them is his trigger finger. “I don't think so. No other cars in the lot when we got back, and all the room keys were hanging in the lobby except ours.”

Dean nods in response, deadly focused on his task. Each time he pushes the needle through you, you feel like screaming until your throat bleeds. Instead, you draw all your attention to drinking the whiskey and alternately biting down on your own wrist until you've almost broken the skin, switching off as necessary to avoid both cirrhosis and eating your hand.

“Well, keep an eye out anyway.” Dean's grace under pressure is astounding. “You see red and blues, we need to be ready to move.”

“I don't understand.” You're straining to get the words out. Your breathing is labored and uneven in your pain. “What in the hell were the cops even doing there?”

Sam speaks so Dean doesn't have to shift his concentration. He drops down to his haunches beside you, his features etched with concern. “We found out the sheriff's one of them,” he tells you, his voice somehow managing to be soothing in the midst of everything and in spite of the weird crap he’s saying. “She's been killing off the original members of the force and hiring other lamia to replace them. It explains all the men going missing in town—”

“And the girl-power thing happening at the sheriff department,” you finish for him with a hiss.

“We tried to call you, but…” his eyes sweep back to bullet wound, “I’m sorry we didn’t get to you in time.” He brings his gaze back to yours and you feel the full weight of his apology in them.

“Well, Sammy, they don’t call it an ‘ambush’ for nothin’,” you wheeze, trying to manage a smile. It doesn’t quite work.

Dean's hands go still on your back and you feel yourself stiffen under his touch. You know what's coming next. “Okay,” Dean says quietly, taking the whiskey out of your hand. “Go ahead, grab that couch cushion, and bite down.” He's finished stitching, you know from experience, and now he's going to tighten the sutures (can they really be called sutures if they're made with dental floss?) and pour alcohol over the wound to finish it off. As bad as the needle was, this is easily going to be the worst part. You're about to grab the cushion when Sam reaches out to stop you.

“Don't put your mouth on that,” he warns, before rising to his feet with his good hand on his waistband. He makes slow work of taking off his leather belt and hands it to you. “You don't know where that couch has been.”

You reach up to take the belt from him. “Not so sure I know where this has been either, Winchester, but I guess I'll take my chances.” You see Dean turn to hide a smile as you slip Sam's belt into your mouth and hold it between your teeth.

“You good?” Dean asks, having regained his composure.

“Nnhnnn,” you respond, every inch of your body tense.

“All right,” he says, dropping his voice to a comforting whisper. “You gotta relax. Don't fight it. Deep breath.” He breathes in deeply through his nose and you do the same. His hand on your back moves against the wound and you exhale just as he pulls the free end of the dental floss tight to close the bullet hole. Instinctively, your jaw tightens and your teeth bear down on the soft leather in your mouth. You scream against the material, tears pouring involuntarily out of the corners of your eyes. The way the wound is shaped, it’s not a nice, neat little job—Dean’s had to do a purse string suture, turning the skin in your back into what amounts to a squishy flesh sack with a drawstring that he’s just pulled shut. Nice image, that. Sam winces next to you, but refuses to look away. Dean's brow furrows and you feel the whiskey pouring over the exit wound in a stream of cool, terrible fire. Almost instantly, the burning stops, and Sam and Dean let out a collective breath beside you.

Your jaw loosens and you spit out Sam's belt, positive you've managed to bite through it. You've misjudged the tensile strength of good leather, however; the belt is fine. You take a moment to breathe, but Dean is already shoving the bottle back into your hand.

“Drink up, kid,” he orders. The bottle's wet with blood where he's been holding it. You're all pretty well covered in it at this point. Good thing the credit card you left at the front desk isn't genuine, or you'd be dealing with a hell of a cleaning bill come tomorrow. “We're out of painkillers, so this is all you get until we can get to the next state. Do you think you can handle a drive tonight?”

You knock back a significant slug. “Sure,” you groan. “Just hand me the keys.” Your body is shaking so hard, you nearly drop the bottle at least four separate times.

“Funny,” Dean retorts, sounding anything but amused. You know that tone of voice—it’s his dad’s voice, through and through. “Seriously, we need to get out of here ASAP.” He says it as one word rather than individual letters. “I think we'd be safe here until at least sunrise, but I'd rather get as many miles between us and those bitches as we can manage until you're on your feet again.”

“Dean's right,” Sam agrees. He's made no move to put his belt back on. You wonder if he even can with only one hand. “And the sooner we get you to a hospital, the better.”

You're taking slow, even breaths. You're still in an unbearable amount of pain, but the alcohol has, at least, started to kick in. The world's getting a little blurry at the edges, and it's about damn time. “We can’t just leave without taking care of those  
things,” you insist, your voice a lot breathier than you would like.

“We need all hands on deck,” Dean replies, grabbing one of the hotel towels from a heap he’s made on the floor. He wipes as much of the blood off of his hands as he can with it before tossing it back on the ground. “Sam and I can’t take these things without you. Hell, we probably can’t take all of them even with the three of us at full strength. We need back-up. And we’ll call some as soon as we get the hell out of Dodge.”

Sam has moved near the beds. You watch him packing his and Dean’s bags with an impressive amount of dexterity for someone who only has use of his non-dominant hand. Dean follows him after a moment, shoving what few items he’s bothered to take out of the car (weapons and black t-shirts, mostly) into his duffel and helping Sam zip his up when he’s finished. Your things are already packed, thank goodness. You’d woken up this morning expecting to have to hightail it by nightfall. Of course, you hadn’t imagined the afternoon ending quite like this.

When you look back, Dean’s at the door with the bags, and Sam’s back at your side. You still haven’t moved, but you’ve made good progress on the whiskey.

“I’m gonna help you up,” Sam says softly, placing his good hand on your shoulder. “And I’ll carry you to the car.”

“You can’t carry me, Sam,” you protest after a particularly long draw off the bottle. “Your hand is broken.”

Sam grins his lopsided grin at you and moves into position. Guess you’re getting moved whether or not you’re on board with the idea. “I’ve had worse,” he says.

“So have I.” You tilt the bottle nearly upright and chug everything that’s left. Forget three sheets to the wind; you’re going to be at least six sheets in in a few minutes. You shift as much as you can without hurting yourself too badly to let Sam get his arm around your midsection, both of you painfully aware of your wounds. Outside, you hear the Impala’s engine roar to life. You wrap an arm around Sam’s neck and shoulders and ready yourself for the inevitable resurgence of pain that is coming. 

“Okay,” Sam commands, his mouth drawn tight in anticipation of all the things that are about to potentially go wrong, “On three. One… Two…” You draw in a deep breath and brace yourself. “Three.”

For a moment, you go completely blind. The world explodes to white, then black, and then white again. You feel your body being hoisted off the couch, and then you’re saddled in the arms of the taller Winchester. Your vision slowly bleeds back into focus as Sam starts to carry you out the door. The holes in your torso are screaming in protest. You can feel fresh blood leaking through the purse string.

“Hey, hey…” his voice comes to you in waves. His face is twisted with worry. “Come on, don’t black out on me. You got this.”

You almost manage a smile. At least it feels like you’re managing a smile. You’re not entirely sure what your face is doing. Between the alcohol and the agony, you’ve pretty much guaranteed you’re not steering your own ship anymore. You hear the Impala getting closer, and suddenly the sounds of the door opening as Sam climbs into the backseat with you. You’re staring at the meticulously maintained black interior of Baby’s backseat before you’re even aware you’re out of the hotel room.

“I’m staying back here with her,” you hear Sam say, “Drive.” The back door slams and Dean’s running around to climb into the driver’s seat. His door closes and the car lurches forward the second his ass hits leather.

“Stay with us, kid,” Dean barks from the front seat. You’re sure he’s watching you in the rear view mirror as he says it.

“Watch the road, Winchester,” you mumble, your mouth pleasantly numb. It’s the only part of you that is. Being on your back in a moving car is not much of an improvement from Dean digging the needle in and out of your guts, but you suppose it’s probably better than getting slaughtered by a group of monsters come daybreak. Column A, column B.

You maneuver your body enough so that Sam’s knees are no longer pressing into your side and the bullet wound on your back is at an angle between the seat and his thighs. He’s holding your head and neck with the arm of his good hand and doing his best to pretend the broken one isn’t bothering him.

“Never thought I’d end up in a backseat with you in a million years,” you manage. Your breathing is ragged; the sentence is a Herculean effort.

Sam cracks a smile. “Well, they can’t all be good days.” You try to laugh, but it doesn’t work as well as you’d hoped. You manage something between a cough and a squeak instead.

“Hey, no funny business back there,” Dean warns, focusing intently on maintaining his speed without accidentally spilling you onto the floor.

“Jealous?” You offer half-heartedly. The whiskey is doing its work in about a dozen ways, and you’re starting to get drowsy. You’re not sure you can stay awake until you get to the hospital. You’re also not sure what will happen to you if you do fall asleep. You fight against that tide of drowsiness as best you can. The pain helps.

“Oh yeah.” You can hear the smirk in Dean’s voice. Then the car is quiet. When he speaks again, his tone is back to deadly serious. “We’re about a two hours out from a hospital in the next state. You got it in ya to fight that long?”

You’re struggling to keep your eyes open. You feel Sam’s hand tighten against your upper back.

You’ve got another two hours in you, don’t you, kid?


End file.
